​Whoever I’m bound to meet has a story to tell: that of being cheated and of being wrongly accused, or even molested. It seems like either I come across only exactly half of the world, the one which is victimised and rendered hapless, or else, everyone in this world is a victim to every other thing. If the latter is true, then it can be easily squeezed to one sentence: Everyone just reveals their wounds with sob stories to narrate; and conceals the demons within themselves, the ones which inertly demolish other beings, their passions, hopes and their souls.


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